


I Barely Knew I Had Skin Before I Met You

by only_more_love



Series: Unpack Your Heart [1]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Discussion of feelings, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Garcyatt, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Triad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.]





	1. Your sorrow, your beauty, your war—I want it all

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** This takes place in the same universe as [Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493811). You DO NOT have to read that story first in order for this one to make sense. All you need to know is that this is set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.
> 
>  **Summary:** Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed.
> 
>  **Warning:** Nothing graphic, but don't read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.
> 
>  **Song Suggestion:** _Walnut Tree_ by Keane
> 
>  **Chapter Title:** Your sorrow, your beauty, your war—I want it all (From Phillip Phillips' _Unpack Your Heart_.)

 

**I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (1/4)**

_"Aren't we all waiting to be read by someone, praying that they'll tell us that we make sense?"_  
\- Rudy Francisco

 

When her eyes first opened, Lucy didn't know what had woken her. Soft snores rumbled next to her, and she stifled a laugh. "Wyatt," she whispered in the dark, "roll over onto your side. You're snoring." Her words were met by another snore, this one significantly louder than the last. Shifting closer to the warm man sleeping next to her, she nuzzled the curve of his bare shoulder, then skimmed a hand over his stomach. "Honey, you're snoring. Turn over!"

The man slept like he'd taken horse tranquilizers. "Mmmph. Luce," he murmured, sleep slurring it all into one nonsensical word. He exhaled a snuffling sort of breath she vowed to tease him about in the morning and then turned onto his side so they now lay with her chest pressed to the steady heat of his back. His skin invariably ran hot, so he usually slept in just a pair of boxers on the left side of their bed. That way if he felt uncomfortably warm, he could stick an arm or leg out from under their blankets without subsequently freezing Lucy, who always felt cold.

Come to think of it, her back felt chilled. Frowning, Lucy turned onto her back and reached out her left hand to pat the bed. On that side the sheets were cool to the touch, as if they hadn't been slept on for hours. She moved onto her elbows and peered at the bedside clock, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The clock read 3:35 - far too early for any of them to be up for any good reason.

Moving with as much stealth as she could muster at that early hour, Lucy slipped from their bed to go search for the other man who should've been asleep behind her, playing the big spoon to her little spoon. A faint sliver of light gleamed from under the closed bedroom door. Their room enveloped her in a pre-dawn chill; goosebumps prickled on her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and tiptoed out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. It squeaked loudly. In the morning stillness, the sound blared like a siren. Lucy winced and made a mental note to oil the hinges later that day.

Yawning so wide she felt her jaw crack, she padded downstairs, making sure to avoid that one spot on the fifth step that always creaked. She followed the glow of light like a trail of breadcrumbs. The lights shone on a dim setting, casting unsettling shadows in the room. Lucy shivered.

He sat at the kitchen table, facing away from her, body hunched, head bowed, leaving the back of his neck bare and vulnerable. "Garcia," she said, voice hushed, not wanting to startle him. Her whisper cracked the surface of the early-morning tranquility. The muscles in his back stiffened, the sudden tension there the only sign he'd heard her speak. His silence and tense posture worried her, but she forced herself to remain calm and not smother him with an excess of concern - concern he might not welcome.

The three of them loved each other, true, and Garcia had lost most of that desperate- wild-animal-caught-in-the-jaws-of-a-steel-trap look that used to be de rigeur for him. Still, sometimes his thoughts and feelings remained as opaque to her and Wyatt as they had in the past. Fortunately, she liked puzzles; he was her favorite.

She touched the back of Garcia's chair. "Is it OK if I sit with you?"

His head dipped nearly imperceptibly.

She pulled out an empty chair to his right and sat with her feet tucked under her, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. She snuck a glance at Garcia from under her lashes, but he wasn't looking at her. Instead, he seemed to be completely focused on the paper napkin he was tearing - first into long strips, then smaller pieces. His hair hung loose and ruffled over his forehead in an inky fall, longer than he usually let it grow. It shone black in the dim kitchen; she knew sunlight, however, would coax forth a dozen shades of brown and even red.

His lips twisted down in a faint frown she ached to kiss away. She clenched her fists in her lap and inhaled deeply to avoid reaching for him. He would talk when he was ready. They'd all had too much stolen from them already; she would not be the one to steal one more thing from him - choice. Vulnerability was still difficult for Garcia. For all of them, really.

A small, white pile of napkin confetti grew in front of him. A tremor shook him, and Lucy noticed the dark hairs on his arms standing up. He must be cold. That she could fix. She shuffled to the living room, trying not to stumble over anything, and snagged the fuzzy, gray throw draped over an arm of the largest sofa. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Garcia still tearing up napkins and showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. Without a word she tucked the throw around him, letting her hand linger on his neck for a half-second longer than it strictly needed to.

"Your skin feels like ice," she said, starting to move away. "I'll make some tea to warm you up."

His hand shot out to capture hers. He brought it to his face and held it so her palm curved over his cheek. "Thank you, Lucy." The steel-string rasp of his voice made her shiver.

"You're welcome, Garcia." She smoothed her free hand over his hair and cleared her throat. "Will you tell me what's bothering you? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but-"

He nodded and brushed a kiss over her knuckles before releasing her hand with a soft sigh. "I'll tell you. Do you mind making tea?"

"Of course not."

Five minutes later she handed him a steaming mug of chamomile tea before sitting down next to him with her own cup. Garcia turned his mug so the writing on it showed. He huffed a little laugh. "I don't have an attitude. I have a personality you can't handle," was stamped in large black bubble letters. Wyatt had given the novelty mug to Garcia a month or two ago. They'd all had a long laugh over it. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Garcia had asked with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows and a teasing lilt in his voice.

"Hell yes," Wyatt had retorted, laughter gleaming in his blue eyes, taking any sting out of his words with a hearty clap on the other man's back and what _probably_ would've been a quick kiss to his lips - if Garcia hadn't twisted his hands in Wyatt's shirt to hold him in place, chasing his mouth with such diligence that Lucy felt her body heat. She'd smiled so hard her cheeks had hurt, then let loose a piercing wolf whistle. They'd broken apart at the shrill sound, both panting, a hectic flush painted high on their cheeks.

She loved Wyatt and Garcia all the time, but those moments were among her favorite: when their sharp edges were filed down to kiss-dazed eyes and soft, swollen lips.

Garcia's fingertips drumming an irregular beat on the tabletop brought Lucy back to the present. She stilled his hand with one of her own. "Tell me, please." The words rang out as a plea, not a command.

His gaze dropped from hers, shuttering - and Lucy let it - but she kept her hand where it was, skimming her thumb over the top of his hand, anchoring him while he composed his thoughts.

"My daughter would be ten today...If she'd lived." His voice wavered on the last word; he pulled his hand out from under hers and wrapped it around his mug. "It's Iris' birthday - October 19th."

"Of course. I'm so sorry." The words sounded hollow. Lucy leaned back in her chair and shoved her hair behind her ears. "Oh, Garcia, I should've known." That certainly explained his middle-of-the-night melancholy.

He shook his head and waved off her apology. "Why would you?" he countered with a quizzical smile that didn't reach his shadowed eyes.

"I'll remember next year." Disappointed in herself, she sighed. "I promise."

"I believe you. If you say you will, you will." He patted her knee. "But Lucy, you don't have to."

"I want to." She shrugged and bit her bottom lip. "If it's important to you, it's important to me."

The throw around Garcia's shoulders gaped open, exposing the plain, white v-neck he'd worn to bed. Lucy's gaze flicked to the simple gold chain he never took off; he'd bought it to hang his wedding ring upon when the three of them had finally admitted their relationships were changing. Now Garcia worried the gold band with his hand - until their gazes met. When he seemed to realize what she'd been looking at, he tucked the necklace and ring underneath his shirt, shielding them from her view.

"You know, you never talk about them." Lucy pitched her voice low and calm. "Either of them."

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "What is there to say? Rittenhouse murdered them." His tone sounded placid and unruffled, but his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. "The rest," Garcia continued, and his mouth, the same mouth she kissed every night before she slept, twisted in a sneer that made her stomach hurt, "as they say, is history."

"Don't do that." She didn't bother concealing her frustration.

"What?"

"Don't minimize what you've lost." She stabbed a finger in the air in his direction. " _Who_ you've lost." She scrubbed a hand wearily across her face. "Own your grief." This time the words came softer.

"Own my grief," he repeated, eyes widened almost comically, and disbelief written across his features.

"Yes." She nodded once. "Own. Your. Grief," she got out through gritted teeth.

Garcia slammed his fist on the table.

Lucy jumped in her seat, hand flying to her throat, and heart pounding so fast she could almost taste it. Though she knew he would never hurt her, the sudden movement and noise had startled her.

"They fucking murdered my family," he said, his accent growing thicker and heavier, as it always did when he was stressed or emotional. "They stole everything from me." He tunneled both hands into his hair. "My beautiful girls...slaughtered…" He bent nearly double in his chair, arms folded over his head as if he was shielding himself from something. "Their blood," he moaned, "there was so much of it. So much blood…"

His voice broke on the last word, and so did Garcia Flynn.

The sobs came then - great, heaving sobs that tore through him with the force of a bullet. Cowering in his chair, he rocked back and forth like a child trying to comfort himself. Lucy shoved her chair back and enveloped him in her arms. Seeing this formidable man brought so low by his grief made tears spring to her own eyes, but she sniffed them back, determined not to make this about her, and held on tight as he shuddered and cried through a storm of mourning.

She didn't bother shushing him. "Own your grief," she'd told him. He'd probably never even had a chance to properly grieve his wife and daughter, since he'd had to run as soon as Rittenhouse had framed him for their deaths. He didn't need to be quiet; he needed to grieve, even if seeing him this way made Lucy feel like she was being flayed alive, one tender strip of skin at a time. She swore she would bear the weight of his suffering ten times over if it helped him.

He clutched her like he was afraid she'd leave him if he didn't. He clung to her like his world was rupturing all over again.

His tears soaked Lucy's sleep shirt. Her back and arms cramped from bending over and holding him so tightly for so long.

Still, she held him, saying nothing.

Except her hands stroking up and down his back said, "I'm here."

And the kisses she feathered over his hair said, "Let go. I've got you."

Minutes or maybe hours passed. She had no idea. Her world had narrowed to the man fracturing in her arms. Muted footsteps sounded on the stairs; Lucy glanced up to meet Wyatt's concerned gaze. Before he could speak, she lifted a finger to her lips, gesturing for him to stay silent.

With a nod of understanding, Wyatt settled on the second to last step, leaning an elbow on his knees and propping his chin in his hand. "I love you," he mouthed. "Both of you."

Lucy smiled and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. He'd just gotten up from bed and stumbled on this scene in the kitchen. How did he know just the right thing to say?

Garcia wasn't sobbing anymore, but his breathing was still choked and uneven. She knew he was trying to wrest back control of himself when his arms and hands loosened their grip and then finally released her. He inhaled and exhaled slowly through his nose, avoiding her gaze. She let him go but retreated only a few inches.

"You should let me go, Lucy," he said in a voice like gravel. He sniffed hard and stared at the floor. "You and Wyatt, you know, you could be happy together. Without me. You both deserve better than me."

"Hey, man," Wyatt called, standing and waving from the stairs. "I'm right here." In five strides he stood with them. "Want to fill me in on what I missed before you start making major life decisions for me?"


	2. We all break the same.

Garcia raised red, ravaged eyes to them both. He held the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip, the rest of his body so stiff and strained he would probably shatter like warped glass if either she or Wyatt touched him. Lucy _knew_ —no, she felt it burning in her stomach—how badly he wanted to run.  To cry in front of her, to know that Wyatt had witnessed any of it, well, he would view it as a show of weakness. _Stupid man._

Lucy sat in a chair, motioning for Wyatt to do the same. Who knew how long they’d be there? She met Garcia’s gaze directly, determined not to shy away from his pain. If only grief were an alternative fuel; between the three of them they still carried enough to power a small city.

Garcia pressed a hand to his chest, just over his heart. His eyes closed, and he swallowed, throat working. “It’s my daughter’s birthday, Wyatt,” he said. His eyes were still closed, as if he couldn’t stand to look at them when he said the words. “She would be ten years old today,” he said, voice rough, two stones rubbing against each other.

They sat suspended in crystalline silence for a breath, then two. Then: “I’m sorry. I know...I know that doesn’t change anything.” Wyatt straightened in his chair. “It doesn’t get easier, does it? To lose your kid…” He shook his head, at a loss for words.

Garcia opened his eyes, his gaze narrow, sharp as bladed steel, and twice as likely to draw blood. “I didn’t ‘lose’ her. She wasn’t simply misplaced, like a favorite but replaceable trinket. Here today, gone tomorrow, but no matter because I can go buy another one.”

“I know that.” Wyatt sighed and rubbed his temples, and Lucy patted his back in sympathy. Their lover possessed an unfortunate knack for taking their words and twisting them into tangled skeins they found nearly impossible to unwind. “Geez, come on, Flynn. You know I didn’t mean it like that, and—”

Garcia’s brow furrowed, then smoothed out again. “I know what you meant,” he said, his tone strident as he interrupted Wyatt. “And I appreciate the sentiment,” he added, softer this time.

 _Would you look at that?_ Maybe she could teach an old dog new tricks, after all.

“Do you really?” Wyatt said, nose wrinkling, and Lucy stifled a laugh at the skepticism threaded through his voice.

“I do.”

“Well, you didn’t let me finish what I was saying.”

“I...apologize.” Garcia inclined his head. “I have been told I am not always the world’s most attentive listener.”

“Really?” The one-word question was delivered in a tone as dry as the Sahara.

Garcia’s mouth curled at the edges, and he waved carelessly, motioning for Wyatt to continue.

“Jessica and I, we didn’t have kids.” Wyatt smiled, but it was a smile that held no mirth, only a deep sadness. Lucy reached out and stroked his hair, keeping the pressure feather light;  he accepted her attempt at comfort without comment, leaning into her touch. “Always thought there’d be more time for that someday.” 

“Ah, the folly of youth.” Garcia’s lips mirrored Wyatt’s, forming an equally joyless smile. His voice sounded sympathetic, though, free of all mockery.

Wyatt shrugged, nodded once, and cocked his head to the side, almost as if he was listening to something she and Garcia couldn’t hear. He blinked, then seemed to return from wherever he’d gone for those few seconds. _Jessica._

Lucy felt a dull throb of jealousy before she silently scolded herself for the uncharitable emotion. She knew all too well that she couldn’t compete with the siren call of history and memory. Wherever Wyatt had gone for those moments, she reminded herself, he was here now, with her and Garcia.

“Yeah, something like that.” His eyebrows drew together, and he scratched his chin, his expression thoughtful as he contemplated Flynn.

Lucy watched and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.  Garcia steepled his long fingers, staring back at Wyatt without blinking. “Whatever you’re thinking, Logan, just say it.”

Wyatt pulled up his foot, propping his ankle on his other leg. “Sometimes you act like you hold a monopoly on suffering. Sure, my kid wasn’t killed, but I know what it’s like to lose someone.” He paused, tipping his head toward her. “So does Lucy.”

She nodded. “I do.” Fingering the locket around her neck, she struggled to picture her sister’s easy smile. With each passing day, that became more and more difficult. That hurt her more than she ever mentioned to Wyatt or Garcia, the guilt suffocating in its intensity.

Wyatt pointed in Garcia’s direction. “Your wife and daughter were taken from you.” He tapped a thumb to his own chest. “My wife was murdered.” His hand clasped her shoulder, fingers warm and steady, like the man himself. “Lucy’s sister never existed; the man she thought was her father died; her biological father’s a Rittenhouse crony, and so’s her mother.” Wyatt’s hand moved off her shoulder, and Lucy shivered, suddenly cold and exhausted.  “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?” Garcia flashed Wyatt an incredulous look.

“I think it’s easy to get caught up in your own pain and forget you’re not alone.”

“Believe me, this is not a competition to see who has suffered the most.” Garcia cleared his throat. “Since Iris and Lorena were killed… Since I tried to bring them back… The things I’ve done....” He shook his head, frustration limning every line and angle carved in his elegant frame. “Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing in here but a black hole that has swallowed _everything_ .” Flynn’s jaw clenched. “Do you understand?” He leaned forward and  thumped his chest with an open palm. His wedding ring swung out from beneath his shirt, gleaming a dull gold in the dim light of the kitchen. “Everything good and kind and worthy; everything that makes a human, human.  I don’t want it to swallow you.”  He regarded each of them in turn, his gaze imploring. “Either of you. You deserve better. You can _have_ better.  I—” His eyes closed as he covered his face. “I don’t know if I have anything left to give anyone. To give you and Lucy.” The words were muffled by his hands but still discernible.

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

Garcia’s only reply was a sharp shake of his head, and Lucy discovered that yes, there were still parts of her heart left to break.

“Don’t hide from me.” Wyatt’s chair screeched against the floor, the sound jarring, as he shoved it closer to Flynn. He tugged Flynn’s hands away from his face, curling his fingers around his wrists, where Lucy knew his pulse thrummed. “You. Me. Us. This. It...works. And we need you.” He looked at Lucy for just a moment; she nodded, once, feeling her eyes go misty. His fingers shifted to Garcia’s face, cradling his cheeks with both palms, while Lucy stood and settled her hands on both their shoulders. “ _I_ need you,” Wyatt continued, echoing the words Lucy had said to him at the Alamo so long ago. “I need _you_ ,” he repeated, without a trace of hesitation in his voice.

Garcia captured one of Wyatt’s hands in his own and traced the lines in his palm with an unsteady fingertip. “There’s blood on my hands,” he said, eyes and voice holding a bone-deep weariness. “There’s not enough water in the world to wash it away.”

With his free hand, Wyatt pulled Lucy onto his lap. With his other hand, he linked fingers with Garcia’s. “I know. And I still want you. I still choose you. We all have blood on our hands. I’m tired of it, too. I’ve killed when those were my orders—when someone told me it was the right thing to do—and I’ve killed when I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I just don’t want to do it anymore. But what’s left for me? I’m still alive.” He smoothed a hand over Lucy’s thigh. “Am I just supposed to crawl into some hole for the next 30-40 years? I know I can’t make up for the lives I’ve taken. But I have choices; we all do. I can still choose to try to do some good in the world. So can you. That’s up to you, though. You can choose to run, Flynn. So you don’t have to care; so you don’t have to lose anything or anyone else; so you don’t have to try do something good or right. You have to choose. Not me. Not Lucy.”

Having said his piece, Wyatt released Garcia’s hand and slouched back in his chair with his eyes closed and Lucy curled against his chest. Minutes rolled by in silence, and Lucy began to think maybe Wyatt had done the unthinkable and rendered Garcia Flynn speechless for the first time in his life. Lulled by the quiet and the steady heat of Wyatt’s body, she started to doze off, her body finally surrendering to a drugging combination of fatigue and emotional upheaval.

“I’m impressed,” Garcia said, snapping Lucy out of the warm, sleepy haze she’d succumbed to. “That was quite a speech, pretty boy.”

“I may be pretty”— here he paused, opened his eyes, and bit his lip with a knowing look—“but my mouth is good for more than sucking your dick.”

Garcia dissolved into a coughing fit.

“Wyatt!” No question she was wide awake now.

Garcia sniffed. “There’s no need to be crude.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” Wyatt muttered, scrubbing at his hair until it stood up in five different directions..

“Behave,” Lucy said, giving him her sternest look and digging her fingers into his midsection, right where experience told her he was super ticklish.

He batted her hands away, wriggling in his seat. “Why? We all know you like it better when I don’t.”

Flynn and Wyatt exchanged smug looks, suddenly co-conspirators allied against her. Garcia groaned, then winked at her. God, she couldn't take it when his eyes twinkled like that. “Lucy, you walked right into that one.”

Unable to dredge up an appropriately scathing comeback from the depths of her tired brain, Lucy settled for sticking her tongue at them both. Her men laughed, the sounds mingling sweetly, and a feeling of lightness swelled in Lucy until she was helpless to do anything but join in. And with that, much of the tension bled out of the room.

Flynn sipped his chamomile tea, mouth curling in distaste.

“It’s probably cold now. I could make a fresh cup,” Lucy offered.

“No, thank you, Lucy.” He set the mug back on the table, tapping his fingers against it.

“How ‘bout something stronger, Luce?” Wyatt wagged his eyebrows suggestively, grinning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Lucy groaned. “Wyatt, the sun isn’t even up yet.”

Wyatt’s grin widened, and he nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s shining somewhere.”

She couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucy nudged Garcia with her foot. “What kind of cake did Iris like?” She leaned back against Wyatt, letting him run his fingers through her hair again and again while she melted into a puddle of goo in his lap.

Garcia snagged her ankle, pulling it into his lap. When he pressed both his thumbs deep into the bottom of her foot, she sighed at the impromptu foot massage. “She didn’t like cake.” The corners of Garcia’s mouth tilted up, just a little, in the ghost of a smile, and Lucy waited patiently for him to say more. “I think it was something about the texture.”

“Oh. OK. So what treat did she usually have on her birthday?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” he replied, and his eyes were full of remembrance.

“Mmmm. I love chocolate chip cookies.” Wyatt licked his lips. “Your daughter had good taste.”

“Yes, I suppose she did. She loved chocolate chip cookies. More than anything, she loved ‘helping’ her mother in the kitchen, Lorena always said…” His voice trailed off, and Lucy wondered if he’d continue. “...She always said it took her twice as long to cook anything with Iris’ help.” He sighed and looked away. “They would make chocolate chip cookies together on her birthday.”

“Then it’s settled,” Lucy said, yawning and standing up. “We’re making chocolate chip cookies.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now, Wyatt.” She tried to inject her voice with energy. “Seize the day,”

“It’s almost 5:00 in the morning. Can’t we seize the day after we go back to bed for a few hours?

“Come on. Don’t you want chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?”

Garcia watched them silently, hands folded loosely over his stomach.

Lucy grabbed Wyatt’s hands and tried pulling him out of his chair. He didn’t budge. Clearly her methods of persuasion needed work. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Please. It’ll be fun.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “It’ll be good for Garcia.”

Heaving an enormous sigh, Wyatt got up and scratched his chest. “OK. Fine. Just let me put on a shirt first,”

“Leave the shirt off.”

Hands on his hips, legs akimbo, Wyatt said, “I’ll have you know I’m more than just a piece of meat, ma’am.”

  
With her arms wrapped around his waist, Lucy kissed Wyatt’s shoulder. “Just who are you trying to convince?"

  
Wyatt gave a long-suffering sigh as he was sandwiched between both Lucy and Garcia in a hug.


	3. Bring your secrets; bring your scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think these guys had more to say than I initially expected. That means there will be one more part after this, and then we should be done. The last bit will be short.

A Google search for a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe turned up a five-ingredient one Lucy was confident even their sleep-deprived, emotionally-drained threesome could handle. Butter, flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips. Today they’d be eating the sweet and chocolatey breakfast of champions. It would be worth it because all of them still had healing to do, and this, acknowledging Iris Flynn’s birthday, was another tangible step in that process.

She’d just pulled a stick of butter out of the refrigerator and set it out to soften on the kitchen counter behind her when two sets of footsteps sounded—one slow and measured, the other pounding down the stairs at a rapid clip. Garcia and Wyatt rejoined her in the kitchen. Wyatt wore a long-sleeved tee. It had seen better days; the cuffs were frayed, and the shirt clung to Wyatt’s back and shoulders after too many trips through clothes dryer. It was an aesthetic she deeply appreciated.

Lucy tapped Wyatt’s shoulder with her index finger and bumped him with her hip. When he focused on her, she turned a mock pout on him. “Excuse me.” She arched an eyebrow.

Wyatt’s forehead crinkled in consternation, and his eyebrows drew together. “Yeah?”

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

“Agreed? Ha. You're a funny woman.” Wyatt smirked. “More like you tried to give me a direct order, and I took it as a suggestion.” He gave an exaggerated shiver, causing her to roll her eyes at his dramatics. “It’s chilly down here, Doc. Besides”—he winked and stepped into her space, his body radiating delicious heat, and wound his arms around her—“I’m still gropeable with clothes on.” His words were followed by his hands, which proceeded to knead the curve of her bottom with gratifying enthusiasm.

Tilting her head to the side, Lucy flashed Garcia a questioning look. “What do you think, Garcia?” She traced nonsensical doodles on Wyatt’s shoulders while she waited for a response.

Flynn leaned back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other, slanting a considering glance at her and Wyatt. Only a few feet separated them. Amusement flared in the depths of Flynn’s moss-green eyes, chasing away some of the shadows that still lingered there. “I think opening a thoughtfully-wrapped present is half the fun of receiving a present in the first place.”

Though Wyatt’s busy hands stilled, Lucy was grateful he kept his arms looped around her. “So, in this metaphor of yours, am I supposed to be the present?” Wyatt asked. She leaned into him, a cat searching for a good scratch; he responded by running his nails over her back through her thin nightshirt. Pleasure sparked through her, chasing Wyatt’s sure fingers, until Lucy nearly hummed from it.

Garcia’s observant gaze tracked the path Wyatt’s hands traveled over Lucy's back, and his lips ticked upward a millimeter. “You, Wyatt Logan,” he said, sidling closer to them, his voice lit by humor but lacking any sardonic edge, “and all that West Texas charm, are the gift that never stops giving.” He finished with a smacking kiss to Wyatt’s cheek.

“Damn straight,” Wyatt replied. “About time you figured that out.”

Garcia’s full-throated laugh rang through the kitchen. For a second, Lucy forgot her exhaustion. Instead, she focused on the warmth that fizzed in her chest as Garcia bent and kissed them—first tilting Wyatt’s face up with one long finger on his chin—and then her.

Warm lips grazed her temple; strong arms surrounded her. Lucy’s eyes slid shut, and she inhaled deeply. She couldn’t catalogue the individual scents that filled her nose, though she dearly wanted to. Was it Garcia’s deodorant? Wyatt’s skin?

All Lucy knew as she tried to freeze the moment, to preserve it in amber for eternity, was that those scents signified something important to her. Comfort. Them. _Home_.  
  


* * *

   
“I’ll tell you what, Lucy.” Wyatt nodded and folded his arms over his chest. I’ll make a deal with you.”

The mischievous expression that rolled over Wyatt’s face immediately put her on guard, but she decided to humor him anyway. “Okay…I'm listening. What are your terms?”

“Since you seem oh-so-interested in me being shirtless right now, I’ll agree to that, but—”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“ —only if you take off your shirt, too.”

A beat passed. Lucy blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing several times, but no words came out. Finally, she reached out and thwacked Wyatt on the forearm. “Wyatt!” Lucy knew both men were very aware that she rarely slept wearing a bra. Though she was pretty comfortable in her own skin at this point in her life, that didn't mean she wanted to bake while topless.

“What?” He cringed away and slung her a look that was all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not the only feminist here. It’s all in the interest of equality and fair play.”

“I think you mean foreplay,” Garcia chimed in, dark eyebrows raised. He curled an arm across Wyatt’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“You would take his side.” She narrowed her eyes at him, silently promising Garcia future retribution.

Garcia lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking anybody’s side,” he protested, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that made her insides feel loopy and effervescent.

“Ready, Luce?” said Wyatt. His hands gripped the bottom of his shirt and started inching upward, revealing a sliver of skin at his stomach.

“No. Stop. Let’s all just...keep our shirts on.” How had their morning taken such a turn for the absurd?

Garcia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Oh, he might be laughing now, but she would remember this moment and make him pay later.

“Deviants,” she said under her breath.

“Hey! I heard you,” said Wyatt. “Just so you know. That is unfair.” Looking not at all put-out, he wagged his finger at her. “And inaccurate. Yeah. You’re the one who started it. So pot, kettle, black.”

She heaved a gusty sigh. “Fine, Wyatt.” With a shrug, she clapped her hands against her legs. “You win. You’re right.” 

“Sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” Wyatt cupped a hand to his ear. “Could you please repeat that?” 

Her lips twitched, but she bit back the smile that threatened to appear. She would _not_ encourage his theatrics. “I said, ‘You’re right.’”

“Thank you for admitting that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

 “Don’t get used to it.”

 “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” He paused and lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It's about as rare as a unicorn sighting.” Wyatt and Garcia exchanged telling looks.

 It made her skin itch to imagine letting him have the last word. But she would let his very last comment slide. “So I guess we’re equal opportunity perverts.”

“Lucy, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the human body.” Garcia rubbed his hands together as if warming up to the current subject. “It is, after all, a marvelous creation.” With his hands tucked into the pockets of his pajama pants, he strolled the length of their small kitchen. Then he reversed direction, ambling back toward them, studying her and Wyatt in turn, an air of deep reflection about him.

Sensing the beginning of a world-class lecture, Lucy caught Wyatt’s gaze and made a face. He grinned and shook his head. “You are such a brat,” he mouthed.

Lucy widened her eyes at Wyatt and casually scratched the corner of her mouth...with her middle finger.

He snickered at the vulgar gesture and shook his head at her antics. Though his mouth didn’t form any words, Lucy easily parsed the naked affection on his face.

“Consider da Vinci’s exploration of geometry and proportion in his _Vitruvian Man_ drawing—”

Wyatt turned toward Garcia. “You mean the naked guy?” He drew a circle in the air. “With the circle around him? And the square?”

Garcia nodded in approval, a wide smile tempering the otherwise severe lines of his face. Lucy instinctively wanted to smile back, though her stomach tightened painfully at the knowledge of how isolated this man, who had become utterly irreplaceable to her, had been for so long, with no one to talk to about his thoughts. No one to share the minutiae of daily life with. No one to ask him, “How was your day?” and care enough to listen with full attention to his answer.

“Yes! Exactly, Wyatt. I wasn’t sure if you'd catch the reference.”

“Always happy to live down to your expectations, Flynn.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to underestimate you. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Nah. Okay, maybe a little. You can make it up to me.”

Wyatt hooked his fingers in the waistband of Garcia’s pants. “So how about we all get naked. In honor of da Vinci?”

Garcia’s face twisted in a rather quizzical expression. “While I appreciate the sentiment, that is altogether convoluted logic, Logan.”

As much as she appreciated their good-natured banter, she knew they had gotten sidetracked from their original objective. She rolled her eyes and yanked Wyatt’s hand away from Garcia. “For the love of... Listen, we’ve gotten completely distracted. We are supposed to be baking.”  She clamped one hand over Wyatt’s mouth and one over Garcia’s. “And no, don’t even say it: We are not going to be doing naked baking.”

Bracketing a hand around her wrist, Garcia tugged her hand away from his mouth. “Half-naked, to be precise,” Garcia said, eyebrow quirked. He gave her fingers a playful nip before releasing them.

Wyatt and Garcia both laughed, deep smile lines radiating out from the corners of their eyes like little sunbursts. The combined effect dazzled Lucy with its radiance. Her breath stuttered in her chest. A second later she blinked, and the spell was broken. “Oh my god,” she said, recovering her voice. “Please, I beg you, both of you. Just forget I said anything about being shirtless.”

* * *

  
“So what'll it be, boys? Dark or milk chocolate chips?”

“Milk,” said Wyatt.

“Dark,” said Garcia.

“But Lucy,” Wyatt said, tugging at her sleeve, “dark chocolate’s gross. It’s too bitter.”

Garcia aimed a scathing look in Wyatt's direction. “No, you're mistaken: milk chocolate is too sweet. Too cloying. Too much of a good thing. In dark chocolate, however, the sweetness is balanced by the hint of bitterness. Balance, Wyatt.” He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arms. “In all things, seek balance.”

“Yeah, okay, Jedi Master Flynn.”

A startled laugh flew from Lucy’s mouth. When Garcia cut her a glare to rival Medusa’s stony stare, the laugh morphed into a cough. “Okay, well then.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll compromise and do half and half,” she said, her tone placating. “Happy now?”

“No,” Garcia and Wyatt replied in unison.

Lucy smiled.

* * *

  
“Here,” Lucy said, and handed Garcia a worn wooden spoon. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and they shared a glance, neither speaking. Gentle heat spread from that point of contact, eventually settling in Lucy’s cheeks. She curled her hand around Garcia’s upper arm. “Make good use of those muscles and beat the flour and sugar together.” 

“Whatever you say...ma’am,” Garcia said, a hint of mischief glimmering in his smile as he applied himself to the task she'd set for him.

“Uh uh. No way.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest and shook her head decisively. “I refuse to have you both call me that.” 

He nodded in acquiescence, hair slipping over his forehead. “Then I will have to think of something else.”

“Anything but ‘ma’am.’”

Garcia continued stirring, eyes distant, expression thoughtful. The spoon tapped the edges of the steel mixing bowl with every turn and made a dull clanging sound. “Yes.” He looked at her with a half-smile, then nodded. “Whatever you say, _dušo moja.”_ His voice altered on the unfamiliar words, deepening, the tenderness in the foreign syllables nearly tactile. A brush of velvet against her skin...  

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flicked away from hers. “Perhaps I’ll tell you...someday.” 

To her surprise, Lucy swore she saw a hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Garcia…” She knew she sounded whiny, but she didn't care. “Tell me now.”

He paused in his stirring to pat her hip. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy.” 

An unfortunate side effect of intimacy was that they all knew a thousand and one ways to infuriate each other. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy,” she retorted, mimicking him.

He smiled broadly, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Insolence will get you nowhere.”

Wyatt sniggered; Lucy kept her features blank but added him and Garcia to her mental shit list.

* * *

   
“Hey, I’ve got muscles, too.” Wyatt flexed his right arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and placed it on his biceps. “Check out these guns.”

“Very impressive,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to Wyatt’s mouth.

“Don’t think I can’t tell you’re humoring me.”  
  
“I’m not humoring you, Wyatt.”  
  
“Are too.”  
  
“You’re right: I am.” 

“Your honesty is killing me, Lucy.”

“My honesty is one of my finest qualities.”  
  
His eyebrows quirked in confusion. “You have qualities?”

“Smartass. Just for that, you get to take the cookie sheets, and everything else, out of the oven. Then preheat it to 350.”

Wyatt opened the oven door, bending to retrieve the items stored inside that black hole of kitchenware. “Holy shit.” When he stood up, his hands held a mountain of baking sheets, muffin tins, wire cooling racks. Moving slowly so as not to drop anything, he stepped to the right and placed everything on the small square of counter space next to the stove. That done, he turned to look at her reproachfully.

“Don’t you look at me like that.”

He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Lucy, you promised us you’d organize this crap.”

She swallowed, feeling a little guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Her packrat tendencies and general messiness were a sore point between the three of them. “I meant to...I mean I will…” She wrung her hands. “It’s just, we don’t have space for it all.”

“Exactly. So get rid of some of it. Donate it.”

“But I need it.”

“You need all of it?” Wyatt shot back, skepticism evident in his voice.

“Well…”

Lucy’s attention shifted as her eyes caught movement. The wire rack that had been perched at the summit of the mountain of items Wyatt had just hauled out of the oven, crashed to the floor. “Oh no!”

The three of them leapt to catch the remaining objects before they went the way of the rack. A few items still clattered to the ground in a cacophony of sound, but they were able to salvage most of the stuff. Disaster thus mostly averted, Wyatt and Garcia simply looked at her, irritation so clear on their faces that they didn’t have to say anything.

She deserved that; she’d attempt to be graceful. Lucy gave a sheepish shrug. “Um...Sorry?”

* * *

   
“OK, Wyatt, now it’s your turn. You add the egg and mix it up completely,” Lucy said.

She checked the recipe on her phone, then pulled a canister out of the freezer. “Garcia,”—she pointed at the canister—“we need 1 and a ¼ cups of flour. Don’t pack it too tightly, and level it with a dinner knife.”

Garcia rummaged in a lower cabinet, then stood up, holding a glass measuring cup.

Wyatt cracked a large egg on the edge of the mixing bowl and poured its contents in. He walked to the trash can and tossed the broken shell pieces in there. “So tell us something about your daughter,” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “What was she like?”

Lucy pulled a container of salt from the pantry and brought it to the counter, eyeing Garcia without comment. Would he answer Wyatt’s question?  
  
Garcia froze in the act of pulling a spoon from the cutlery drawer, blinking rapidly. Pin-drop silence surrounded them. “She...I…” He sighed and shook his head, hand trembling as he dropped the spoon in the measuring cup and closed the drawer with a soft click.  

Something inside Lucy twisted. “We could take turns. Share one memory—talk about our...Talk about the people we’ve lost.” She slid her hand over Garcia’s, squeezing gently. “Um. I’ll go first.” She released his hand and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. A deep breath. She could do this. “Amy is...I mean...Amy was…” A laugh escaped her lips, and Lucy cringed at her own nervous behavior. “Wow, this is hard.” She stared down at the counter in front of her, vision blurring, until an arm closed around her shoulders.

When she looked up, blinking back tears, she discovered that it was Garcia who’d wound his arm around her. His eyes met hers unflinchingly, and the silent compassion she saw there gave her the strength to continue. She closed her hands into fists, then concentrated on loosening them slowly. “Amy’s seven years younger than me. When she was little, Mom would put her in my lap, and I’d read to her. I’ve always loved books, and my parents, they fed that love. So we had a ton of books at home. At first, I used to decide what to read to Amy. But when she got to be two, maybe three-years-old, she started pulling books off the shelf and bringing them to me to read.

“She loved this series of books about a giant dog. Clifford the Big Red Dog. He was twenty-some feet tall, and...Anyway, at one point, her absolute favorite book was _Clifford’s Kitten.”_ An ache started in Lucy’s chest; she pushed it away and continued. “I think I read it to her every day for like a month straight; I basically had it memorized. I got so sick of that damn book, but Amy would bring me that book, plop down in my lap, and say, ‘Read.’”

The ache increased, widening its geography, and stretched to her throat. There it sat, like a malignant growth. Lucy shook her head, once, clutching the locket that still cradled her sister’s picture, and allowed Garcia to fold her in his arms. Eyes shut tight, she pressed her cheek to his chest until the ache receded enough that she could breathe freely again.

* * *

 After they put the cookies in the oven to bake, Lucy set a timer for nine minutes. Turning to Wyatt and Garcia, she took them each by the hand and pulled them to the living room. “Let’s sit while we wait for the cookies to bake.”

Lucy snuggled into one corner of the larger sofa; Wyatt claimed the other one. Though Garcia moved to sit on the small sofa adjacent to the one they sat on, Wyatt shook his head and motioned him closer. “Sit here,” he said, patting the empty spot between him and Lucy. Garcia perched on the edge of the sofa. Wyatt sighed in exasperation. “Like this, genius,” he said, and pulled Garcia down until he lay flat on his back with his head in Wyatt’s lap. They must have made a comical picture. Garcia was so tall that his butt pressed against Lucy’s hip, and his legs bent, bridging her lap, his feet tucked next to her other leg.

Lucy smiled, watching Wyatt card his fingers through Garcia’s dark hair. She knew just how hypnotic that resulting sensation could be, given that Wyatt had done the same to her earlier that morning.

Careful to keep her touch gentle, Lucy worked her hand under the hem of Garcia’s sweats and pressed her fingertips into his calf. Garcia sighed, and Lucy’s smile widened.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep,” Garcia murmured, eyes closed, voice curling in the air like a wisp of smoke.

Wyatt chuckled, then stopped abruptly. Lucy turned her head to look at him, curious. His hand continued to glide through Garcia’s hair. “Jessica loved to knit, especially when I was deployed. She said…” He cleared his throat. “She said it helped, especially when she missed me, knowing that she could fill a need for someone else. She had needles in all different sizes, and she made all kinds of stuff—scarves for soldiers and vets; blankets for homeless shelters; little hats for newborns at the hospital.

“I think she was always working on a half dozen projects at a time.” He smiled, and it was just a little one, but it was real. Then the smile seeped away, and his hand stilled in Garcia’s hair. “After she was killed, I was sitting on the couch one night, just nursing a beer, and I felt something poke me. It was one of her knitting needles, sticking out from between the cushions. I went a little crazy then. Threw out all her stuff. Her knitting needles, her half-finished charity projects, her huge stash of yarn. All of it. I wish...Now...I wish that I hadn’t done that.”

Lucy’s eyes met Garcia’s; he laced his fingers together with Wyatt’s and laid them over his heart. 

Silence reigned until the kitchen timer buzzed.

* * *

   
Once the cookies had cooled, Lucy scooped them all onto a pretty platter and set them in the middle of the dining table.

Wyatt grabbed one and raised it to his mouth.

Lucy snatched it away from him and put it back on the platter.

“Why’d you do that? You promised me chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Lucy.”

“I did. But not until we sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Let me see if I can find a candle.” After rummaging around in various cabinets and drawers, Lucy finally found one in the junk drawer. “A-ha!” she said, holding it up in triumph. She also found a pack of matches in the same drawer.

“How many candles are there in total, Lucy?” said Garcia.

“Let me look… I see three. How come?”

“Oh. Well, I was thinking, maybe we could light one in honor of each person we’ve...lost. But if there are only three…” His voice trailed off.

Lucy nodded. “I think that’s a lovely idea. We’ve only got three candles, but we’ll light all three. It’s supposed to be the thought that counts.” She couldn’t very well stick the candles in a cookie, so she grabbed a small bowl, filled it with salt, and placed the candles, one red, one blue, and one purple, in there until they were all standing, albeit a bit crookedly. She stepped back, tilting her head to admire her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but the effect was charming. Somehow it worked—just like their patchwork family.

“Here,” Lucy said, handing the matchbook to Garcia. “Why don’t you light the first one?”

Garcia accepted the matches with a nod. He tore off one match and drew it across the striker. The odor of sulfur hovered in the air as the match head flared to life, glowing brightly in his hand. He held it to one candle wick until the flame caught. With a brisk shake of his hand, he put out the lit match and handed the matchbook back to Lucy.

She did as Garcia had moments before, and when her candle flame flickered merrily, she passed the matchbook to Wyatt.

When all three candles were lit, Lucy reached for both Wyatt and Garcia’s hands. She started the song. “Happy Birthday to you,” she sang, and if her voice was a little shaky, no one commented on it. Two baritones joined her on the next line. “Happy Birthday, dear Iris. Happy Birthday to you.”

They all seemed to hold their breath as the last few notes hung in the air, fading by slow degrees even as the trio of flames still danced.  

“Why don’t you blow them all out for us?” Lucy whispered, face turned toward Garcia, loath to disturb the fragile peace that encompassed them.

“Do you mind?” Garcia asked. His eyes lingered on Wyatt, not Lucy.

“Not at all. You do it.” The candlelight reflected in Wyatt’s eyes. “Please,” he added.

With a silent nod, Garcia closed his eyes. After perhaps a minute, he opened them again, then leaned forward and blew out all three candles.

Lucy released both men’s hands, smiling when Wyatt seized four cookies, two in each hand.

He bit into one cookie. “Oh my god,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. “These are so fucking so good.” He groaned, the sound simultaneously filthy and exquisite. “Guys, I think we’re going to need to bake about three dozen more.”

Lucy snatched one cookie out of Wyatt’s hand, quickly taking a nibble before he could protest.

“Hey, no stealing! That was mine.”

She munched on her cookie until she realized Garcia was standing there, silent and cookie-less. “Don’t you want one?” she said.

“In a minute. First, I wanted to say thank you. Both of you. For all this. For being you. For putting up with me. I know I can be...difficult.”  
  
Wyatt snorted. “Massive understatement there.”

Lucy used her free hand to swat him on the butt.

“I’m a prickly bastard, aren’t I?” said Garcia.

Wyatt lips curled up in a megawatt grin that could have melted a glacier. He winked and tossed Garcia a wry look that clearly said, “You don’t actually want me to answer that, do you?”

Garcia laughed, long and hard. When he finally quieted, he pulled out a chair and sat down. His hands came to rest on the table in front of him, fingers threaded together tightly. “I should probably talk about Iris now. You both shared a memory. I should do the same.”  
  
Lucy brushed her hands together, clearing off cookie crumbs, then squeezed Garcia’s shoulder. “There is no ‘should.’ You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“The thing is, I think...I think maybe I want to. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Then we’ll listen,” Lucy replied.

“I don’t believe in God anymore, but...” His voice trailed off. “My daughter, she...” He paused again to clear his throat. “My daughter was magical. To me. To my wife. And she believed in magic—fairies, mermaids, dragons, and all those mystical things we adults sneer at. There’s this drawing she did for me years ago. A drawing of three mermaids. I’ve carried it with me, in my wallet, all this time, everywhere I’ve gone. After every horrible thing that I’ve done, I’ve taken out that tattered drawing and looked at it, reminding myself why I had to do those things. And for what? I’ve paid my pound of flesh—and then some. And for what?

“Do you know she wanted to change her name?” he said, abruptly changing topics.

He laughed quietly, and the sound hurt Lucy because it echoed with the vast ocean of longing, grief, and dusty dreams that each one of them held for their dead loved ones.

“She wanted to change her name to Arabella Sweetwater,” Garcia continued. “That, according to Iris, was a name fit for a mermaid like herself. We promised her, Lorena and I, that if she still wanted to change her name when she grew up, she could do so. She's never going to grow up, though is she?”

Neither Lucy nor Wyatt answered, recognizing the question was rhetorical.

“She's gone. Really gone. They both are. And the part that scares me the most, is that I think I’m starting to move on. Wyatt...Lucy... I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to forget them.”

“Oh, Garcia,” Lucy said. “You don’t have to forget them. Neither of us would ask you to do that.”


	4. Chapter 4

"I hope you find someone who knows how to love you when you are sad."

\- Nikita Gill

* * *

"Can we see it?" Wyatt scratched the corner of his mouth. "I mean the drawing Iris made for you."

"I…" Deep creases bloomed on Garcia's forehead, and Lucy felt a bolt of certainty that he would refuse. He moistened his lips, and the gesture was so precious to her in its familiarity that her stomach curled in an odd little dip. "Yes. It's in my wallet," he finally answered, after a brief pause. At this additional glimpse of vulnerability he'd allowed her and Wyatt to see, a swell of gratitude and tenderness washed over Lucy. "It's nothing exceptional. Just a child's drawing. But if you're sure you want to see it…?"

Wyatt's blue eyes softened as he gazed at Garcia without blinking. "I'm sure."

Garcia's chair clawed at the kitchen floor as he rose. Lucy's regard lingered on his back as he left the kitchen. She knew it was only her imagination—a trick of the light, perhaps—but his tall, rangy frame seemed less upright, more stooped than usual: Atlas, supporting the weight of the boundless sky on his broad shoulders.

Wyatt cleared his throat, drawing Lucy's attention. A smile brimming with wistfulness curved his lips and lifted his cheeks. "What makes you put up with either of us, Lucy?"

Lucy stroked her chin and furrowed her brow, pretending to consider his question with utmost seriousness. _Because you two are my home._ "Honestly, the sex," she said, delivering the quip in a crisp, champagne-dry tone she had probably picked up from Garcia.

Wyatt's eyes widened in surprise. Then he threw back his head and laughed, loose-limbed and easy, exposing the graceful lines of his throat. He shone so brightly it was like staring at the sun; she had to look away. When their gazes meshed again, Wyatt grinned, shaking his head fondly. Lucy just flashed him a wink.

A minute later Garcia returned. His eyes tracked from Wyatt to Lucy, a speculative expression unfurling on his face as he took in Wyatt's wolfish grin and the mischief still scrawled on Lucy's face. "I missed something."

"Nope," said Wyatt, "nothing important."

Lucy merely shrugged, attempting to look innocent.

Garcia clicked his tongue and shook his head, skepticism flaring in his narrow gaze. "You're both terrible liars, but I'll let it go for the moment." He laid a small rectangle of folded paper on the table in front of Wyatt. "Here you go."

All traces of laughter fled from Wyatt's face, leaving it somber. He cocked his head, a question gleaming in his light eyes.

"Yes." Garcia nodded. "You can look at it."

Wyatt unfolded the paper with great care, fingers moving slowly until it lay spread open on the table.

Lucy scooted her chair closer to Wyatt's so she could see the drawing more clearly. The paper seemed thinner and more delicate along its creases, though it hadn't torn yet. It was just as Garcia had described it, three crayon mermaids done in bold, broad lines, obviously drawn by a child's hand. All wore similar lopsided smiles. One had short, rainbow-colored hair, while the other two had long hair with flippy, upturned ends.

Nothing exceptional, as Garcia had said.

But to look at the naked lines of Garcia Flynn's face while he watched one of his lovers stroke the colorful page, was to know that this simple drawing was his heart laid bare.

"Thanks for showing it to us, Flynn," Wyatt said. "It's...Well, 'beautiful' doesn't seem like the right word, but it's all I've got. I get why you kept it."

"It's all I have left of her," Garcia said in a voice like cold ash, both hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table. The significance of the day, combined with the remembrances they'd each shared had left Garcia uncharacteristically shaky. The sun's hot kiss on the glacier of his grief had started the melting process; now he was left mopping up all the water.

"We know." Wyatt tilted a look at Lucy. Sighing, he stood and settled his hand on Garcia's back, sliding it down and then back up again in a hypnotic motion, gentling Garcia like he was a skittish animal. Which he was.

When Flynn finally eased his white-knuckle grip on the table, Wyatt squeezed his shoulder. "Better?"

Garcia only nodded in answer.

"Good." With a final pat on Flynn's back, Wyatt walked away. "I've got something for you guys," he called over his shoulder.

Collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, Garcia closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Lucy got up from her seat and stood behind him. With her arms curled around his shoulders, she rested her chin on his dark hair. "I'm proud of you, you know," she said.

"Proud? Why?" he asked in a smoky rumble. His warm, slim fingers slotted into the spaces between hers.

"Because you talked about them, and I know that was difficult for you. Because you showed us Iris' drawing."

"And that's important to you."

"It's important to me that we know you," Lucy said, correcting him lightly. "That we all know each other," she added. "Iris and Lorena are a part of who you are. Just like Amy's a part of me, and Jessica's a part of Wyatt."

"Are you so certain I'm a person worth knowing, my Lucy?"

Lucy blinked and dipped her head, nose brushing Garcia's silky hair as she feathered a kiss to the soft hollow behind his ear. He shivered in her hold, causing her lips to fold in a secret smile.

"Yes, _my_ Garcia, I am."

* * *

When Wyatt returned, Lucy and Garcia sat side by side, hands linked. With a smile warming his face, he laid something on the table in front of his lovers. Lucy laughed in delight and released Garcia's hand, reaching out and stroking a finger over the matte silver picture frame Wyatt had brought with him. "Where did you get this?" she asked, tipping her chin toward Wyatt.

Wyatt's shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. "Jiya took it a few months ago. I just blew it up."

The frame held an enlarged photograph of three of them sitting at a black restaurant table, clutching their stomachs and making ridiculous faces. Colorful lanterns dangled from the ceiling, and baskets of spring rolls and fried sticky rice decorated the table. They'd had dim sum for Sunday brunch at Great East, stuffing themselves with baked pork buns, shrimp dumplings, and steamed chicken feet, though Lucy hadn't been adventurous enough to eat the latter. Jiya had snapped the picture near the end of their meal, when they were too full to do anything but be silly.

"I love it," Lucy said. "It's a great picture. Thanks, Wyatt."

"Yes, thank you, Wyatt," said Garcia. "Where should we put it?"

Wyatt cracked his knuckles, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Actually, I was thinking that we could find another frame for the picture of us. Maybe we put Iris' drawing in this frame instead. You know, where we can all see it. But if you don't want to, Flynn..." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "You know what, just forget I said anything."

"No. No," Garcia said, and Lucy was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. He shook his head, worrying his lower lip as he stood and moved toward Wyatt. "Just…" His hands lifted in a signal for Wyatt to stop. "Give me a minute."

"OK."

His hands flexed, then fisted at his side. "I don't want to forget this." He spoke the words so quietly Lucy had to concentrate to make them out. "I don't want to forget your kindness." His head tipped down, and his arms folded across his chest. "But I'm not good at this," he said, voice rising with his frustration. "I don't know what to say. I just…" He shrugged, voice trailing off. But he crossed the remaining distance to Wyatt, hands reaching until they found a home on either side of the other man's face. His hair, dark as a raven's wing, fell forward as he leaned down toward Wyatt, who stood several inches shorter. Their lips finally met, in a kiss slow and sweet, and Lucy exhaled.

Wyatt's hands slid over Garcia's back, pulling him closer. Garcia made a low noise in his throat, his fingers drifting into Wyatt's hair before he stepped back. "Thank you, _dušo moja._ "

"You're welcome," Wyatt replied, and though it was only two words, his face spoke many more. "You called Lucy that earlier, and now me. But you still haven't told us what it means. How do we know you're not cussing us out in Croatian?"

One of Garcia's eyebrows arched. "Does it _sound_ like I'm cursing at you?"

"I don't know," Wyatt said with an impish grin. "You tell us."

"You're not going to let this go, are you, Logan?"

Wyatt's grin widened. "Not a chance, Flynn."

Sighing, Garcia folded his hands together. "My soul," he said, his tone lofty. "That's what _dušo moja_ means."

"Huh. So what you're saying is, you called me and Lucy your soul."

"Mmhmm."

"So do you still want us to let you walk away, so we can be happy without you and your blackened soul, Lucifer?"

"I'm old, Logan. And selfish. Too selfish to let either of you go if you're foolish enough to keep me. Though I've learned I can get used to living without anyone, I don't want to learn to live without you both."

"Oh thank god. Now can we please go back to bed?"

"I'm not sure I can fall back asleep now, Wyatt."

"An orgasm should take care of that."

"Are you offering to give me one?"

"You did call me your soul. I figure it's the least I can do. I'll blow you, if you ever stop talking, Flynn. You'll come so hard you'll see stars, and then we can all pass out for a couple hours."

"You do say the sweetest things, Wyatt Logan."

Lucy laughed, trailing her boys back up the stairs to their bedroom.

* * *

A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you feel like sharing them. :)

Come flail about _Timeless_ with me on tumblr. You can find me at onlymorelove DOT tumblr DOT com.


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